Down by the Docks
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: When she married Jason, Sam thought that her dreams of love had come true, but now that their marriage is strained, she's starting to think that she had things right in the first place - that she was better off on her own. A day at the docks changes that.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction. They belong to their creators as well as ABC and affiliates. No money is being made for the writing of this.

**A/N:** Written for gh_unwrapped prompt: Poetry in Motion.

**Warning**: Features public masturbation and sexual fantasy. For mature audiences only.

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Sam watched her husband from afar. The strong, unblemished planes of his face, so like Rodin's sculptures – chiseled to perfection, called to her, and made her heart ache with longing. He wasn't smiling, and his shoulders sagged as though he was carrying a burden too heavy for him to bear. She longed to take his burden, ease his pain, but it was she who had put it there in the first place.

She loved him still, even though he was uncertain about his love for her, and had told her he could not love her unborn child. His heart accepted so few into its caverns, and demanded much of those it did accept – a pilgrimage of truth and common decency.

Loyal to a fault, Jason expected the self-same devotion from those he chose to love. And there was little doubt in Sam's mind that, for Jason, love was a choice, which is why it hurt so much when he had rejected her child just because it was also Franco's. He couldn't separate the one from the other, and couldn't see beyond Franco's act of violence against her.

Going into the marriage, Sam had known that Jason valued truth above all else, and yet she had broken his trust, purposefully, by lying to him at a time when he was most vulnerable. She suspected that, in part, her betrayal (in Jason's eyes) had also played a part in his rejection.

"I love you, Jason," she mouthed.

He was turning away from her, back muscles writhing like anacondas beneath his black tee-shirt. She couldn't help but smile. Watching Jason was like watching poetry in motion – all smooth lines and innuendo.

Biting her lip, she turned away, willing her heart and mind to cease their frenzied fluttering. Closing her eyes, she pictured Jason's arms wrapped around her, holding her close, nose pressed to her hair, lips murmuring love as they brushed lightly against her ear, and she shuddered.

With her eyes closed, she could picture Jason clearly, and the world around her dropped away. Gone was the pier where she stood, lurking in the shadows. Gone were the sharp cries of the seagulls as they called out to one another or begged for food. Gone was Franco's curse upon her body and marriage. Gone was everything, save for her and Jason.

She swayed where she stood. Dizziness that had nothing to do with pregnancy made her head swim as visions of Jason coursed through her mind. With her eyes closed, she could feel his fingers – calloused and knowledgeable as they stroked her face, her hair, the soft skin along her thighs.

Her lips parted in a soft moan, and she gave herself fully to the fantasy. She could feel her husband's hands, firm yet gentle as they cupped her breasts and squeezed, drawing another moan from her. She arched her back, picturing, feeling, his lips, his tongue, his teeth teasing her nipples into hardness, making her wet and warm. She ached for more than just the ghostlike memory of Jason's touch, the feel of his lips and tongue on her breasts, suckling like a newborn babe.

"Jason," she moaned, panting, her voice not loud enough to carry across the wharf, nor to be heard above the harsh caterwauling of the gulls.

She leaned back against the coarse wood of the warehouse. Her breath hitched and caught in her throat as she wriggled the fingers of one hand past the constricting material of her jeans and into her underwear.

She licked the index finger of her other hand and reached it up under her shirt, past the wire of her bra. She circled the nipple of her right breast with her wet finger, simulating Jason's tongue drawing an invisible ring around it. She pinched her nipple, imagining her husband's teeth sinking into her plump, firm breasts.

Thankful for the shadows, for the time of day which ensured that no one else would be around, Sam let her fingers slide past the dark, curly hair, fondling the silky fur– Jason had always enjoyed touching and petting her.

She itched to be touched, not by herself, but by her husband's callous-roughened fingers – two thick digits tenderly massaging her labia, rubbing her clitoris; fingers working their way into her vagina and pumping into her while his thumb stroked her clitoris. Sam arched her back, bucking into the touch of fingers which were not quite thick enough as she played with herself.

Freeing her breast from its prison of silk and lace, she squeezed and cupped it with a hand that was far too small, smooth and cool. She superimposed an image of Jason's hands – big, work-roughed and warm – over her own insignificant one, and whimpered in pleasure.

Sam could all but feel Jason's tongue – warm, wet and wide – licking and tasting her – tonguing her urethra, her labia, her clitoris. The sandpaper like texture of the muscle, so ill-utilized by Jason in conversation, but so eloquent in bed, was often her undoing and she called upon that image, that sensation – moist and articulate – as she fingered herself.

"Jason," she breathed, curling her toes in her sandals as an electric numbness shot through her body.

Her breathing, erratic, ended on a long, drawn-out moan of pleasure comingled with desire, and she held her breath. She wanted, no needed, Jason to bring her to completion.

Her body juddered, back scraping against the unfinished wood of the warehouse she'd used for the backdrop of her fantasy, as her fingering became quicker, harder, more desperate. She gritted her teeth in frustration, picturing Jason's eyes – an icy blue – sparking with lust's fire as her fingers, coated in her own sticky, slick cum, alternated rubbing and palpitating her clitoris and labia. She pressed the nails of her other hand into the flesh around her hard nipple, not caring that she'd leave a mark.

Sam's stomach tensed and she banged her head against the wall of the warehouse as she continued her now frantic ministrations. The hollers of the gulls once more drowned out her cries of passion as she bore down on her bottom lip with her teeth and quietly shouted out an orgasm.

Her vulva throbbed in time with the beat of her heart as the walls of her vagina clenched and unclenched convulsively, trying to clamp around a cock that wasn't there.

"Jason," Sam whimpered.

She sagged against the warehouse. Somewhat sore and worn-out, she breathed again, uneven gasps of air as she fought to push the image of Jason – flush and sated, his eyes half-lidded in almost slumber, lying beside her, head propped up on an elbow, index finger lazily tracing the length of her collarbone – from her mind.

She plopped her breast back within its wire-ribbed cage, ignoring her still hardened nipple, and withdrew her fingers from her jeans, wiping them on the outside of her underwear before she removed them completely.

With a shaky breath, she pushed off of the sidewall of the warehouse and brushed a stray hair out of her eyes.

Jason was gone.

Alone, Sam peered into the dark shadows that had afforded her a measure of privacy, and, as she stepped out into the sunlight, she forced a smile onto her face and a spring into her step. She could do this without Jason – live, love and raise a child.

Yes, she could, but, as Sam walked back to her temporary home, she realized that she didn't really want to.

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